Born in the 40s. Stoned in the 60s. Bored in the 90s. Dazed in the tenties.

I'm not a grumpy old man, just an out of synch hippy

Monday, 31 December 2012

Easy Resolutions

New Year
used to make me sweat. It wasn’t just my hangover or waistline (both thicker
than normal). It was the knowledge that
all my vows to become a better person over the next twelve months would, by the
middle of February, be toast. No, not toast. A slab of full fat cheese on top
of a bacon buttie washed down by a quart of whisky.

At last I’ve
found the answer. For 2013 I’m making resolutions which I have 100% chance of
keeping. I’m going to:

·Give
up drinking beer in thimbles. Although it’s great for your brain/hand
co-ordination, it involves a lot of spilt liquid and stained settees. Besides,
my wife’s continually complaining about her bleeding fingers.

·Give
up making advances to strange women. It’s a bad habit. No more striking up
inappropriate conversations with women who knot harpoons into their hair or end
every sentence with a word in Sanskrit. I wasn’t getting very far with those
types anyway.

·Give
up the Triathlon. OK, I’ve never actually done the Triathlon, but for a day
during this year’s Olympics, I had fantasies of emerging dripping from the
water like Colin Firth in “Pride & Prejudice”, clambering onto a bike and punching
the air as I ride through rows of adoring punters. It’s terribly bad for the
health.

On the positive side, I’m going to take up:

·Power
walking. My aims are realistic: I’m
going to do my power walks solely between the coffee maker and the fridge when
I’m hunting for milk. I lose my guilt, I lose my flab, I keep my caffeine rush.
Win win.

·Community
activism. No man is an island. From now on, I’m helping my neighbours out. I
can see some teenagers lobbing beer cans into the hedge. No holding back. I’m
going out to help them.

Sunday, 23 December 2012

A Baby Boomer Christmas Carol

“Bah
humbug!” muttered the grumpy old baby boomer. He’d spent Christmas Eve in his shed
successfully avoiding the Jingle Bells muzac and the drunks in Santa hats. But
right now, as he tried to reenter his house, next door’s 6’ high flashing sleigh
lights threatened him with an epileptic fit. Inside he slipped on a Christmas
Card from an estate agent who wanted to buy up the street. He turned on the TV:
“Christmas With the Kranks” “Humbug!!” he growled.

That night
an apparition came to his room. “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” it said. “I
want to show you your Christmases weren’t always miserable.”

The Grumpy
Old Baby Boomer saw his 8 year old self on Christmas Day blissfully spraying
his sister with his ray gun water pistol and knocking the gravy off the table
with his Roy Rogers lasso.

Another wraith
appeared. “Two ghosts!” exclaimed the Grumpy Old Baby Boomer, “This is a matter
for Pest Control!” “I am the Ghost of Christmas Present,” said the wraith, “See
how you’re destroying the spirit of Christmas.” It showed images of himself groaning
at Slade’s “Merry Christmas”, sneering
at the “Downton Abbey” Christmas Special and hissing at all the holly-decked
people lining up to sell him things he didn’t want.

When the
Ghost of Christmas Future showed up, the Grumpy Old Baby Boomer had had it. “I’m not doing a tour of my lonely grave! Not
even if it’s free.” “Relax,” chuckled the ghost, “you’re going to see how
Christmas could be.”

The GOB was
shown a room with a smell of roasting bird drifting in. A bottle of Chilean Merlot
stood on the table. His sparkling-eyed wife proffered him a cracker and a hug.

It looked
good.

“Unfortunately,” said the Ghost, “According to
a survey, Christmas dinner raises cholesterol unacceptably high. Red wine has
been shown to cause cancer and increase incidence of whooping cough. A
government report finds that human warmth is economically unproductive. So they’ve
banned Christmas.”

Thursday, 20 December 2012

The Deafening Sound of Silence

It goes in one......

I developed
tinnitus about 5 years ago. I caught it from Jimi Hendrix in 1969. At least, I
hope it was him rather than the overloud discos at whose margins I fretted at
the time. Getting a bad hangover from stale beer is twice as annoying.

I became
very tense, couldn’t sleep for two months, and drove my wife crazy as I tossed,
turned and groaned. I finally got a tinnitus relief programme from a doctor in
LA. I normally avoid programmes - they sound like something you have to do in
prison. I followed the exercises religiously. “Exercises” isn’t the word: they
were easy (like relaxing your jaw ten times) and no-one could see me doing
them, the lack of both attributes being the reason I don’t jog.

It worked. I
slowly learned to live with the ringing. I turned the sonic threat into a neutral
or even welcome sound. Surf was up in my sandy Thai beach. Friendly aliens had
picked me as their human contact before bringing peace on earth, not before ray-gunning everyone on “Celebrity Big Brother” as a special thanks to me. An oven was warming
up for a chicken roast (Honey Chicken: lightly brush the bird with Soy Sauce,
baste in butter then spoon over honey 15 minutes before removing. It’s
delicious.)

That chicken
saved my marriage.

A few nights
ago our upstairs neighbours were away. We knew because their teenage daughter
held a party. It sounded like a street that was being dug up and simultaneously
being subjected to an air raid. Chikachakachikachakakkkkkkkkkchika. And that was
just the conversation.

I tried
relaxing my jaw and doing the chicken trick. It didn’t work. Those kids had no
appreciation of my brilliant recipe. I doubt if they’d tone it down for canard
a l’orange and tarte tatin. I tossed and
turned and groaned. Luckily so did my wife.

I’m going to
contact Dr M. We’re going to work on a programme which cuts out the real outside
noise. I’ll be able to muffle the police sirens by flaring my nostrils. And win
the Good Neighbour award.

TK FOAMS AT THE MOUTH AND ROLLS ON
THE FLOOR AT THE SOUND OF THE WORD.

PROD: Tell
me your symptoms.

TK: Excruciating
ennui and disgust. You must help me. They’ve infested my flat. I hear them
sniggering under my kitchen sink. They get into my fridge. They leave their
droppings everywhere. They jump out at me!

PROD: (CALMLY)
Of course, they don’t in reality.

TK: Yes
they do. They’re in 3-D!

PROD: Now
you must ask yourself, how can a Hobb -

(TK CONVULSES)

PROD: - er, one of these proportionally different people actually hurt you?

TK: If
I see one of them, I know I’ll be trapped in a dark room and subjected to
endless CGI battles….

PROD: Ah!
You find the battles scary?

TK: I
wish I did! And then there’s three hours of stilted dialogue, cardboard
characters, overloaded visuals, nausea….

PROD: We’ll
try Exposure Therapy. It’ll acclimatise you with a steady and constant exposure
to Hobbits.

TK: That’s
what’s happening already!

PROD: Then
using hypnotherapy, we’ll send you to sleep over 9 hours of the Lord of the
Rings trilogy…..

TK: I
don’t like the sound of this.

PROD: We’ll
strap you in and brainwash you with electric shocks. Ha! Fool, you didn’t
realise that Dr Prod is a mere disguise. My true identity is…..

HE RIPS OFF HIS WHITE COAT AND WIG

PROD: ….
PETER JACKSON!!!!!

LIGHTS DIM. TK IS ENCASED IN METAL FETTERS. A SCREEN
LIGHTS UP WITH THE START OF “AN UNEXPECTED JOURNEY”.

Wednesday, 12 December 2012

Notes From Beyond the Veil

Alas Poor Hamlet

I’m dead.
This is not paranoia, nor some kind of acidhead hippy fantasy. It’s a
clinically proveable fact.

How do I
know this? Science, of course.
First, I live in Lewisham. A survey says that male residents of this
impoverished (in patches) area of London have a statistical chance of dying at
70.8 years. I regularly see men walking about who are over 70.8, but I address
them bluntly: “What makes you so special? Think you’re cleverer than the doctors
who’ve spent years studying this stuff?”

Another
survey says that people who sit down for longer than 3 hours a day lose 2 years
off their life. I’m a writer. I also love watching Scandinavian detective
drama, sitcoms and the Toyota “Mob Guy” advert. None of this stuff is improved
by doing it while sweating over an exercise bike. 3 hours seated? I did more
than that when I had piles.

Yet another
survey warns that every cigarette cuts 11 minutes off your life. I only smoked
for 10 years of my reckless youth, but 25 cigarettes a day adds up to 91,250, which
by my reckoning is 1.90 years deducted off my account.

Lewisham’s
rated highly on the pollution scale. Our contribution to the world carbon monoxide
count is pretty impressive. An EU survey says living in areas like this cuts up
to 8 months off your life.

I’m 65.25
years old. I think you can see where this is heading.

My
cholesterol is on the low end of the highish spectrum, although I reduce it by
thinking of Chris Moyles whenever I pass a cheese counter. Totting up an
average of cholesterol survey results, by my calculation a whole year’s gone
ping.

So, if you
have the adding up skills of the average 15 year old - change that – of the
average bank clerk – you’ll see that there can be no arguing. 70.80 – 5.62 =
65.18. Statistically, I’m no longer alive.

Having said
that, life improves when you’re dead. For a start, I’m much less worried about
my health. I read fewer surveys. I’m probably more fun to be around. Who knows,
I’ll come across another survey which says that being dead increases your life
expectancy by 5.62 years. And I’ll be back to where I was when I started.
Except 1 ½ hours older.

Wednesday, 5 December 2012

The Beautiful Virus

Inner Space

I’m just getting over a rotten
cold. It hasn’t been nice, but, as a Brit, I feel I’ve done my bit. Colds are
one of the glories of our culture, along with Shakespeare and Blake, and you’re
expected to participate. Immigrants from warmer countries should be offered classes
in the social significance of being a bit congested.

In fact, we should all do them,
Brits and non-Brits. It’s a matter of sharing our National Heritage. Here are just a few of the deep-rooted Folk Customs
of the Sniffling Season.

The Ceremony
of the Spreading of the Germs. This is held where large numbers of people are
crushed together, mainly on commuter trains and the tube. The ceremony begins
with a few people tentatively sniffing into their Kleenexes. Someone (maybe in
olden times they would have worn stag’s horns), sneezes out loud. There is a
ritual Giving the Disapproving Glare and Holding up the Newspaper. Then someone
responds to the sneeze. By the time the train pulls in, nearly everyone will be
joining in a Mass Snort. The effect is overpoweringly emotional.

The
Respectful Concert Cough When an orchestra plays, in between movements
it’s customary to encourage the players with a low cough which goes round the
Hall. When this fails to happen, conductors turn round and glare at the
audience until someone starts to splutter.

The Water
Cooler Moan Game This involves delicate conversational skills
which can take years to master. The opening gambit goes something like “I’ve
got a real shocker. Had it for two weeks.”
The response is “It’s going round.” People with real finesse might come
out with something like “Honey and lemon’s best”. Intimidated pre-initiates
should not hover round the margins. By getting in close they’ll catch the cold
and tomorrow have a bash at the opening gambit.

We should celebrate Cold Culture with
an International Mucus Day. Your suggestions are welcome. For example, at
midday everyone could participate in a Two Minute Sneeze (sponsored by the
hanky industry). We could market it with the slogan “It’s like Red Nose Day,
except you don’t need to buy the nose”.

When to have it? In the classic period
for British colds, of course – the summer.

Monday, 3 December 2012

He nearly
crashes into me at the Cakes corner. He’s steaming round with his baby buggy
from the Desserts, I’m heading from the Deli Fridge. “Do we really need more
rice?” he asks.

I’m about to
suggest he tries couscous, although he doesn’t look like a couscous kind of man,
when the cord dangling from his ear tells me it’s not my opinion he’s
canvassing.

“OK babes”
he sighs, moving on as he stuffs another packet of Uncle Ben’s into the basket
balanced by the child’s rack of toys, “Your mum….”

I examine my
crumpled shopping list. Milk Toothpaste
Chilli Powder Pasta. I feel like a relic
of a simpler time, like a mastodon who’s made it into the Bronze Age. I check
what we need, write it down, and get it.
In other aspects of my life I’m as chaotic as a teenager, but my
shopping runs along rigid lines, thanks to that Pleistocene scrap of paper.

Hands-free
guy has parked the buggy by the cheese. “Does it have to be Cheshire, babes?”
he moans, spitting “Your mum!…. no, not three….”
but he slips the packets into the basket anyway. As I pass I hold up my list to
show him there’s another way which involves no arguments, no looming relatives,
no payment plans. He’s too busy balancing the crammed basket on the top of the
buggy to notice.

The milk has
moved. I curse the chain stores and their way of shifting the shelves around hoping
you’ll be tempted by all the crisp packets you pass as you search. But Tescos
Inc have met their match with me and my list.

He’s now by
the cereals, having a furious argument about Cocoa Pops. Mum doesn’t like
Shreddies, and he’s outnumbered by her and babes. I cruise past, but they’ve
moved the pasta as well so he just beats me to the till queue. Baby’s begining
to moan. His basket is overflowing while mine contains the four items. “Chicken
nuggets on two for one? Look, I’m… OK, OK….”

He pushes
his way past me back into the shop to dig out the nuggets. I’m left alone with
baby and pull a face at it.

About Me

My name's Tony and I'm a writer....
I've written sketches and one-liners for TV and Radio for the UK and all over Europe. I write magazine articles, I teach comedy writing and standup comedy, I write material for performers and presenters, I'm pretty good at cooking Thai food and I don't have a cat.
Oh, and my book "How To Write Comedy" will be published in April 2014.